


Deference

by tiamatv



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (none of the switching is explicit), Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Criminal Castiel (Supernatural), Criminal Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester is Bad at Self-Care, Dom/sub Undertones, Gentle Dom Castiel (Supernatural), Hand Jobs, M/M, Organized Crime, Top/Bottom Versatile Castiel/Dean Winchester, Torturer Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:40:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25458685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: Dean's hands were still wet with the blood from his workshop when he shoved Castiel against a wall, pinning him in place with the bar of his arm.Castiel shoved back, snarling. Then he saw Dean’s pupils dilate until his eyes were black rather than green, and he realized what this was.That was the first time Dean kneeled for him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 41
Kudos: 226
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	Deference

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeafZelindor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafZelindor/gifts).



> [Leaf,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafZelindor/pseuds/LeafZelindor) I am almost entirely sure that this is not what you meant when you put up your prompt. And yet, here it is.
> 
> Sorry, friends, this is another weird one! I told myself at some (fairly recent) point I was never going to write BDSM, and as far as I know that is still true, but this is waaaay further down the D/s line than I think I'd ever intended to go!
> 
> [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta) made this so much better with her beta; there were many strange sentences in this before. Her works are lovely, go take a look at them!
> 
> TW: Dean is a torturer by profession. None of it is explicit, but everything that comes with that remains true. Please see the end notes for further warnings.

It took Dean less than ten minutes to break Cole Trenton.

Castiel didn’t watch. He didn’t need to. The percussive thumps and tumbles inside Dean’s workroom had been indicative enough.

Dean hadn’t chained the young man up or strapped him down. There were no racks or syringes, no cuffs or bolts, no. That kind of helplessness would have been a kindness for Trenton, who had been hired to eliminate Dean. Unfortunately for him, he had tried to take Sam to do it.

That had been a rather terrible error in judgment, Castiel thought. Not the plan itself—the Winchesters would come for each other, that was simple fact, so the logic of it had been sound. The _reality_ of it, though.

Trenton was either not very smart, nor very wise, or he simply didn’t understand.

There was a reason Cole Trenton had not been hired for a hit on _Castiel’s_ life, and it wasn’t that Castiel was well-guarded—though he was. Taking Castiel’s right and left hand would have left him gutted, and his own organization would have devoured him. His legacy would have been annihilated, and not simply his existence.

Castiel did not mistake how far the loyalty of his Angels extended—any one of them would take his position from him if they thought he couldn’t hold it. He didn’t hold it with fear, but with certainty.

Dean and Sam Winchester were different. But then, everyone knew that about the three of them by now, from the perspective of years. If anyone had ever asked, Castiel would have said that he didn’t know what he had done to deserve the brothers’ loyalty and their friendship. But that wasn’t true either, and between the two of them they had repaid the risk he had taken on them a thousand fold.

Besides, no-one would have been stupid enough to ask.

It _was_ true that an attack on Castiel was an attack on the Winchesters, as much as vice versa, and they would retaliate accordingly—Dean with blood and Sam with ruination. It _was_ true that Sam and Dean were hopelessly, terribly codependent upon each other, and in an industry that relied on hammering at people’s cracks and exposing their flaws, it should have been fatal.

But it was also true that Sam and Dean had survived more together than most people ever survived apart, and anyone who mistook _that_ for a weakness deserved whatever happened to them.

Castiel glanced, just briefly, through the viewing panel. Cole Trenton was curled on his side on the floor, fetal, face bloodied, eyes swollen closed.

“I won’t,” Cole said. He repeated again, “I won’t, I won’t.”

When Dean was cutting for secrets, he used bolts and blades and cuffs. But when young men came to challenge him, Dean always let them fight. He always let them find him, those who thought they could make their name by climbing on his brutal, bloody reputation, clambering over his dead body.

He always let them live. He always let them tell his story.

Making legacy into bloody legend wasn’t Dean’s intention, Castiel didn’t think, but he did not imagine that Dean Winchester would be soon forgotten.

“You won’t what?” Castiel heard Dean ask, his voice lyrical, Midwestern, whiskey-sweet. If he looked again, would he see Dean lounging against the wall? Standing over the young man at his feet and toeing at him with a boot? Admiring the blood on his fists?

“ _I won’t_ ,” and this time, Cole sobbed.

Taking less than ten minutes to break a man wasn’t a record for Dean Winchester—not for Castiel’s Demon—but it was close.

Castiel had asked Dean why, once, curious—why he gave those puppies a chance, why he let them find him, much less why he even allowed them to fight him rather than just killing them. Dean was good—he was the best. But others were lucky, and a stray bullet could kill just as easily as one that was aimed.

Dean lounged back on his stool, turning his tumbler of whiskey between blunt fingers. “Imagine thinking you’re this hot shit, hunting down this old guy who’s all name and scalpels now.” Castiel snorted a little at the idea of Dean being _old,_ but so few blades made it to Dean’s age, he supposed. _Their_ age. Dean grinned at Castiel’s scowl. “Yeah, yeah. Now, imagine finding him. And when you find him… he whips you like a dog. Nothing but his hands, no fancy knives, no cool rifles, no toys. Just these big ol’ hands.” He spread them, looked down, admired his scarred, callused palms. “How do you think that feels?”

“I think it’s the worst thing you could do to them,” Castiel observed.

Dean’s smile widened, brilliant, flashing teeth through the frame of an unnervingly beautiful mouth.

“That’s why I stick with you, Cas,” he noted. “You get me.”

*_*_*_*

Dean was kneeling when Castiel came to his room.

The line of his shoulders was straight and proud, his back held tight, and despite his eyes being fixed blankly to the floor a foot in front of where his knees rested, his chin was set neutral and up rather than bowed to his chest.

This was surprising, but only somewhat. Castiel paused and raised his eyebrows.

Dean was kneeling on hardwood, not on the rectangle of plush carpet that warmed the otherwise cold floor next to the span of his king-sized bed. The pillows on the bed were undisturbed; the padded mat meant specifically for purposes such as this was still peeking delicately out from underneath the edge of the bed. Dean’s hands were folded at the small of his back, and Castiel would wager there were no ropes or cuffs against them to relax his hands into—or pull into and fight against.

Dean Winchester was his own best restraint, and his own worst punishment.

Castiel looked him over—looked him up and down, slowly, with the kind of appraisal that such a sight deserved. He was wearing simple black cotton boxer-briefs, hugging slim hips low under the slight gentleness of his abdomen. So little of Dean seemed like it could be soft—not his shoulders, not the sharp, scruffed masculinity of his face, not his jade eyes when he shattered Castiel’s enemies into their base components. There was a bruise spreading ugly fingers across the ribs of his left side, another at the line of his jaw, glancing. The pentagram on his left pectoral was stark black, the only ink on him—unusual, for their industry, and all the more pointed for its solitude. His collection of scars scattered white knife lines and old bullet puckers across his torso like volcanic ash.

But he had eyelashes that cast shadows and full lips that he licked with intent on some occasions, with complete unconsciousness others. His chest was corded with muscle, but the stomach underneath it was lean and delicate and soft to the touch with the slightest rise over the dark slash of his underwear. His hips were poetry. There was no shadow of an erection in the dark line of his boxers, but there never was when they started off like this.

“Hands,” Castiel said, quietly.

Dean blinked, slowly, as if coming awake despite the fact that he had not been sleeping. But he didn’t raise his gaze from the floor as he swung both hands out in front of him. He moved slowly enough that Castiel fixed his eyes on the rise of Dean’s broad shoulders, saw the fine tremor of strain and tension and ache as Dean held out both hands.

He left them loose, palms-down, fingers curled in and slightly spread. Both hands were wounded, knuckles split and bruised. He was clean, with no blood on or under his fingernails or in the creases of his fingers, medical glue a thin, glistening film over the hard crests of his knuckles.

Trenton had put up quite a fight.

Dean hadn’t waited for Castiel to care for his injuries. He didn’t always—didn’t often—but sometimes he did.

Sometimes he held out his hands and arched his eyebrows, cocky and smug, and Castiel sat down, rolled his eyes and started to wrap gauze around them, ignoring the way it made Dean look down at the bare nape of his neck. Neither of them ever said anything about the fact that this was not something that someone in Castiel’s position would have ever—should have ever—been expected to do. Sometimes Dean seemed to enjoy Sam’s tut-tutting and his _Deaaan_ and his muttering about infection and threats of dental floss.

Sometimes, not.

Ah.

Castiel reached out and cupped the fingers of Dean’s right hand with his own, turning it over to inspect him. The blade of his palm was bruised, and he had scuffed through one of the calluses of the heel of his hand, leaving a blood blister pooling under the thick, creased skin. He had split through the skin on the first two knuckles. His skin was scrubbed red.

Castiel grazed the tip of his thumb down Dean’s unharmed lifeline, following it across his palm, and Dean’s fingers almost reflexively curled to close over his.

“What have I told you,” Castiel asked, quietly, “about treating unkindly the things that are mine?”

Dean’s eyes almost flicked up to meet Castiel’s. Almost. His eyelashes, tipped with the lightest ghosts of gold, shaded him before they did, and Dean’s gaze dropped back to the long parallel lines of flooring in front of him instead.

Just like the blank look in Dean’s eyes as he looked down the blade of a knife or into a clear vial of an unknowable clear liquid that he was drawing into a syringe, the threat of imagination was often far worse than anything explicit.

It had been many years since Castiel Novak had needed a threat to get his point across.

Castiel smiled. Sometimes Dean was so rebellious, and sometimes so pliant. He was always a rough-hewn perfection. “Answer, please.”

Dean had to clear his throat twice before he could speak, and his voice was deep and hoarse when he did, almost as rough as Castiel’s own. It had been a bad night. “You say ‘Don’t.’”

*_*_*_*

The first time they had sex, they both pretended they were drunk. Castiel was sure that neither of them were. Dean’s mouth tasted of apple juice, not whiskey, and Castiel’s of water, not vodka. Their hands were fumbling, in the beginning. But by the time Castiel grunted and spilled over Dean’s thighs, by the time Dean hunched over and grabbed Castiel’s hand to stop him from stroking, oversensitive, their grip on each other was certain.

The second time, Dean leaned him backwards, roughly, over the desk in Castiel’s ugly showroom of an office, big hands grappling with his pants and Dean’s beautiful mouth twisted in a leer. Castiel was never sure what Dean had intended, but Castiel raising his eyebrows and smiling back up at him from his position splayed over his paperwork seemed to discomfit Dean so much that he fled.

Castiel followed; he spread Dean out on his back on his own bed and took him into his mouth, his lips curling with the unfamiliar bitterness of precome. He discovered that they were the perfect height to share in that together, Dean grabbing him by the hips and rearranging them. He also found that he was not very good at staying focused on what his own mouth was doing when Dean’s lips and his rough hands were moving in tandem under him, _especially_ when Dean started brushing a dry fingertip against Castiel’s hole as he sucked—expert in a way that Castiel had never been.

Castiel groaned into Dean’s thigh and had to finish him off with a hand, woozy and uncoordinated with how hard he’d come into Dean’s mouth.

Dean muttered a protest of “What the fuck are you doing, Cas?” when Castiel tried to kiss him after, his lip curled but his fingertips digging white prints into Castiel’s hips.

The third time, Dean’s hands were scrubbed raw and clean of any fresh blood that might have caught under his fingernails from his workshop. His expression was blank and his shoulders and back were knotted ugly with tension; he didn’t lick his lips or smile out of the corner of his eyes. A cool-eyed stranger looked at Castiel—not his right-hand demonic blade, not his grinning friend with a mouth made for sex, a talent for the con, and a twelve-year-old’s sense of humor.

Dean shoved Castiel against a wall and pinned him in place with the bar of his arm, leaned in and bit at his mouth until they both tasted blood.

Castiel shoved back, snarling. Then he saw Dean’s pupils dilate until his eyes were black rather than green, and he realized what this was.

That was the first time Dean kneeled for him.

Castiel had never forced him to his knees. He had never thought to see it, to be honest, and it had never drifted through his imagination—it was not something that Castiel needed for his pleasure.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d like it.

He certainly hadn’t realized how much _Dean_ would.

*_*_*_*

“How long have you been holding your hands behind your back?” Castiel asked, gently.

Dean’s jaw moved as he clenched his teeth, but he didn’t look up. “One hour.”

Too long. Castiel knew he did not sound pleased when he said, “Stand, slowly. Then stretch out your arms, Dean. You know what is going to happen.”

Dean’s lips parted, just barely, like he would object—but like with the turn of his gaze, he caught himself before it was more than just the soft contact of breath.

“If you let me do this without protest,” Castiel told him, “I will let you use your mouth on me.”

Dean didn’t answer, or at least not in words, but the strain flickered down his arms as he tensed. Counterproductive to Castiel’s purposes, yes, but this was Dean’s process, and shoving him through it would only lead to Dean shoving back.

Castiel had learned that lesson early.

Dean’s knees were blotchy red from the floor when he pushed to his feet, and he had to use his arms to get up. He wobbled as he straightened slowly to his full height—achy, though not uncertain, his face cold and clear and his gaze fixed jade and hard on the wall. He pushed both arms out in front of him, then to the side, stretching clinically.

Castiel would have let him sit on the bed for this, or perhaps even lie flat on his stomach. But looking at the small, flat red lines that the hardwood’s seams had carved along Dean’s skin, he was sure Dean would refuse that kindness even if it were offered.

Castiel walked to the air-conditioning unit and turned it off, conscious of the way Dean’s arms were pebbled with goosebumps. Then he stalked around him and stopped. Dean was as fine from behind as the front—if that were even possible.

Castiel put one hand, splayed, on the small of his back. Dean’s breath whooshed from him like Castiel had punched him rather than just touched, but that wasn’t a surprise anymore, either.

Castiel stroked his palm up and down the midline of Dean’s spine, lined heavy on both sides with tension. He allowed his nails to drag on scarred skin starred with a few golden freckles. Once he reached Dean’s shoulders, he added his other hand and pressed in with both thumbs. The flesh under his hands was tensed tight, but Castiel’s hands were strong. Stronger.

Dean didn’t make a sound when Castiel rubbed firmly through the bands of muscle of his biceps, his triceps, pressed his thumbs through trapezius—smoothing the muscle groups that Dean had abused, both at his work and at the obeisance that Castiel had not asked him for.

But a groan rumbled out between Dean’s teeth when Castiel worked a knuckle into a knot just inside his left shoulder blade, pressing and releasing, then pressing deeper; a higher one almost sounded like a whine when he mirrored the motion on the other side with both thumbs. Dean’s head hung downwards as Castiel finished climbing his fingers up the tension of Dean’s back and rested his palm against the bare, vulnerable curve of Dean’s neck.

Dean didn’t complain about the massage. He knew better, by now, than to protest that Castiel shouldn’t treat him gently, and that he didn’t need or want that kindness. In the beginning, he had—demanded roughness. And there was a time for that, but not now. They’d been doing this long enough that Castiel could tell the difference between the things that Dean thought he wanted and the things that Dean needed.

He rested his thumb in the perfect notch where the base of Dean’s skull met the top of his neck, the taper where his hair became finer, clipped short. Dean shuddered. Castiel almost did.

“ _Now_ you can kneel,” Castiel murmured.

*_*_*_*

“Dean likes you, you know,” Sam told him, one evening, over spreadsheets and whiskey. “He doesn’t have many friends.”

Castiel arced an eyebrow at him. Anyone who mistook Sam as being _gentle_ just because he was the more _genteel_ brother was fooling themselves, but Sam _was_ the one who made himself easy to talk to. For the most part, he was genuine at it. Dean’s charm, when he chose to use it, could be opaque and indiscriminate, and as much of a weapon as his fists or his Colt.

(At times, Castiel wished that he didn’t enjoy that reckless insouciance so _much_. He didn’t expect Dean to actually look chastised when reprimanded, but he _shouldn’t_ have blinked when Dean replied, sloe-eyed, “Cas, not for nothin’, but the last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid.”)

“I think maybe you’re just looking at him like a little brother does,” Castiel observed, amused. “I suspect Dean has no trouble making friends… when he wants to.”

Dean had few friends— _no_ friends, Castiel supposed—amongst the Angels. There were more than a few who resented how the Winchesters had climbed the ranks of their organization in just a few short months; the effort to knock them back down had been fruitless, bordering on hilarity.

Sam was gracious about it, and Dean… not. But Castiel guessed that someone who had made his name and his reputation in the infliction of pain had little need for graciousness.

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, boss. I know. That’s my point.” His mouth curved up, rueful. “We just, y’know. We haven’t stuck ‘round this long anywhere in a long time, and Dean’s more of a picky, opinionated asshole than me. So I’m pretty sure we’re still here because, like I said—he likes you. It’s about _you_ , not us.”

“We work well together,” Castiel allowed. 

Sam snorted. “Uh-huh.”

It was not the kind of insubordination that Castiel would have accepted from any of his Angels, but he found it preferable to the accumulation of whispers that were so much more the norm. Castiel sighed and drummed his fingertips on the desk, looking away. “Sam, say what you’re going to say. I don’t play these games.”

“Yeah, I know you don’t.” Sam tapped something on his keyboard in a brief syncope. “Dean, he… he’s really good at what he does. I mean, we both are, but it’s easy to be good at what I do.”

Spoken, Castiel thought with amusement, like only a genius could. But Dean was a genius in his own way, too, he supposed. “You’re both assets to the organization.” It was a compliment and, from Castiel to one of the Angels, it would have been high praise. But the moment Castiel said it, he knew it wasn’t the right compliment.

That wasn’t unusual for him, though.

Sam, accustomed to him, just rolled his eyes, pushing his long hair behind one ear. “What I do, though. It doesn’t affect me. It doesn’t… it’s not part of me. It’s just something I’m good at.” He shrugged, gestured with a dismissive flick to papers and computers and ledgers. “Dean’s not… right in the head. Neither of us are. But he… especially after he’s been working. I feel like… I dunno.” Sam’s hazel eyes met his, not guileless as much as calm. “You’re the only one who’s ever looked at him the same after seeing what he can do.”

Fear was as much Dean’s job as torment. One without the other would have been pointless. And Dean was very, _very_ good at what he did; Sam was not mistaken about that.

But Castiel thought sometimes that was why the Winchesters had ruined so many of those they’d worked for before coming to the Angels. They saw Sam’s steady, meticulous calm and assumed he was malleable. They looked at Dean’s unruffled, unshakable expression as he cut and sliced and shattered; they saw the way he laughed when he was having _fun,_ and never the twain should have met. They were afraid of both his grim solemnity and his amusement the way some were afraid of a double-edged knife or a gun with an uncertain trigger.

Being afraid of your instruments was, in Castiel’s opinion, when they turned on you.

Castiel didn’t take pleasure in pain, the way others did. But he wasn’t _afraid_ of Dean Winchester. He _was_ afraid, sometimes, of how he watched the laughter and the keen intelligence take longer and longer to return to Dean’s eyes every time he emerged from his workshop, hands bloodied—or perhaps Castiel was afraid of the way his body lit afire when Dean bent a certain way, or when Dean bit his lower lip in concentration as he shot pool.

But these were not the things that defined _Dean;_ nor were they things he would tell a man’s brother.

“We _are_ friends, if that’s what you mean,” Castiel said, softly.

Perhaps Dean Winchester was a monster. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be beautiful. Or, for that matter, human.

Castiel was a monster, too. He understood.

Sam glanced up from his keyboard. One eyebrow was raised so high that Castiel wondered if it was a mockery of Castiel’s own expression. _Yes, that’s exactly what I mean_ , it said. But what Sam said aloud was, “He’s bi. You know. Dean. In case you were wondering.”

Both of Castiel’s eyebrows jumped, and he swiveled in his chair to face Sam before he could stop himself.

The younger Winchester wasn’t even pretending to look at his computer screen anymore, and he was trying not to smile. Mischief made him younger than his height and the years he wore on his broad shoulders and the millions of dollars he’d funneled back and forth, back and forth, at Castiel’s behest.

People were afraid of Dean, but anyone who _wasn’t_ afraid of Sam’s perspicacity was a fool.

Castiel hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on the question of Dean’s sexuality—because there had been no question about it. He’d been certain of the answer, wry about Dean’s swagger, the incessant flirting, the endless stream of girls. Dean fucked out his tension after a job done well and came home still looking hungry and unsatisfied. Castiel had spent months ignoring his instincts, annoyed at how wrong they were, every time Dean had glanced in his direction and held his gaze for too long.

Dean’s looks at him had been a challenge, a mockery, not an _invitation_. He'd been certain of it.

He’d been certain.

“Like I said,” Sam repeated, into Castiel’s stunned silence. Kingmaker, they called Sam Winchester. Boy-King, before, but he was not a boy, not any longer. He looked as smug as a prince, at this moment. “Pretty sure Dean likes you. And I’m gonna need sanctuary or Witsec or _something_ if he ever finds out I told you any of this.”

“Why _are_ you telling me this?” Castiel was not _blushing_. He refused to admit that he was. He refused to _think_ that he was. He raised his drink to his lips and swallowed fire. “Why are you telling me any of this?”

“Well, I like you too,” Sam told him, with far too much amusement.

Castiel—despite years of hearing people say the most shocking, horrible, threatening things to him—sputtered and spit out his whiskey.

“Oh—wait—what? Holy crap, Jesus, no, not that way!” Sam was croaking with laughter and horror, long arms thrown out as he tried to pound on Castiel’s back.

“I have no gift for words, Sam, what’s _your_ excuse? Of the three of us, you’re supposed to be the eloquent one?” Castiel asked hoarsely into the back of his wrist, rocking from the force of Sam swatting his back.

“I take it back, boss, Dean hates your guts,” Sam retorted, but he was still laughing.

*_*_*_*

Castiel was only half-hard when Dean took him into his mouth. Without the prelude of stroking him to a full erection, the hot silk wrap of contact was startling, almost too intense. But the sweep and prod as Dean nudged all the way down, his nose burrowing firmly into Castiel’s dark curls, was _exquisite_. Castiel grunted and almost toppled over when his abdominal muscles spasmed at the _suddenness_ of the pleasure.

One of Dean’s hands swept up and caught Castiel’s hip to balance him, and Castiel had almost managed to straighten again when Dean’s tongue swept playfully along his underside, teasing his length against the firmer pressure of Dean’s palate. With the way Dean rounded his lips around Castiel’s base, it was as if he was trying to suck him erect—which, Castiel noted, hazily setting his fingers into Dean’s short hair, was probably exactly what he was doing. It was a matter of seconds, not minutes, before he was too full for Dean to take him all without swallowing, and Dean reared his head back and off with a gasp.

His look of satisfaction as he eyed Castiel’s wet length—up and down, assessing what he’d done as if he had not seen it a dozen times before—was greedy, more expression than Castiel had seen since he’d walked in the door.

On one occasion or another, they had done this with Castiel still dressed. It was not the day for that, though, and Castiel had earlier made short work of his tie, his suit, setting them to the side as Dean nudged his kneeling mat out from under the bed without Castiel having to tell him to get it. He had glanced to the side to see if Dean wanted to undress him—they both enjoyed that—but Dean’s back had been to him.

Now _he_ was naked, and Dean wasn’t, and on this occasion, Castiel didn’t mistake Dean being on his knees for vulnerability. Not with the way Dean was licking his lips as he eyed Castiel’s erection up and down. The hand that he had on Castiel’s thigh skirted inwards to run a rough scrape of thumb over the front of Castiel’s scrotum, feeling over the soft creases of it, pressing a finger underneath to nudge at Castiel’s perineum. Castiel let his breath out very, very slowly.

Dean truly seemed to enjoy this in a way that Castiel had not had in any of his partners before—whether he was going at it slow and leisurely, or sloppy and quick. Today was neither—it was tongue and lips and a tease of suction, as deliberate as the way Castiel had massaged the tension out of Dean’s back and shoulders earlier.

He suspected retaliation for his earlier tenderness when Dean used nothing but lips and tongue to push Castiel’s foreskin off his glans. He _knew_ he was being punished when Dean nibbled small, barely nipping bites up the side of his shaft and tongued the thin, tender web of skin connecting the base of Castiel’s shaft to the front of his sack rather than taking his length back into his mouth.

Two could play that game.

Castiel let go of his grip on Dean’s hair and brushed his fingertips across Dean’s hairline, caressed the apple of his cheekbone with the curve of a knuckle—used his thumb to trace the whorl and helix of his ear.

Dean met his eyes for the first time tonight—and glared. Jade sparked around the edges of his full, dark pupils.

Too soon. Castiel smiled, ruefully, but he returned his fingers to Dean’s hair, tugging gently—positioning his mouth at the head of Castiel’s cock. He didn’t move, didn’t shove, but he pressed, insistent and wanting, and this time, Dean took him in with a hum.

He saw all the tension drain from Dean’s shoulders, though not the pride—and he _should_ take pride in this, Castiel thought a little dizzily. He thumbed the corner of Dean’s taut-stretched lips, glided it inches over to Dean’s cheek to feel it hollow when he sucked. The abandon on Dean’s face and the soft, pleased noises he was making deep in his throat as he moved back and forth were nearly as intoxicating as the firm draw and slide of pressure and tongue.

Damnations, he was _so_ good at this. Castiel let his back go slack and his eyes close—just _listened_ as Dean Winchester lapped and sucked and smacked his lips, tongue dragging in soft, hot circles. Castiel’s knees buckled when the tip of Dean’s tongue strayed around his coronal ridge, darting along the frenulum with a sensation that was half tickle, half _tug_.

“Enough,” Castiel whispered, almost too late. He thought he would have to say it again, louder, but Dean stopped—instantly, startlingly obedient. When he slid off, it wasn’t showy, or at least not intentionally so, but the sight of the dark flush of his glans lingering on Dean’s wet mouth, Dean’s reluctance to let him bob free, was so impossible to resist.

Castiel resisted, though. He almost couldn’t, when Dean licked at where the stretch had left those beautiful lips swollen, but he resisted.

*_*_*_*

“I’ll make you a bet,” Dean taunted him.

“I don’t gamble,” Castiel replied, calmly.

Dean snorted, and rainbowed the cards between his hands in a neat, arcing shuffle. “You’re telling me you don’t play cards? You’re a fuckin’ Tony Soprano, buddy, you gotta have a back-room card game on Thursdays or something.”

Castiel was vaguely aware of what Dean was referencing, but only vaguely. “I’m telling you I don’t gamble,” he answered, calmly. “And I’m _certainly_ not a soprano.”

Dean cackled so loudly and so stupidly he almost dropped his deck. Castiel waited him out, trying not to be enchanted by the arc of his throat and the way his lips stretched in a genuinely delighted grin.

But when Dean arched an eyebrow and made a card dance and flip hypnotically along his knuckles, the look in his eyes was a challenge, not a tease. “So you’re telling me you don’t wanna fuck me if you win, then?” he shrugged, even as Castiel tried to contain the way his chin had jerked up at that statement. He hadn’t realized that that was something Dean would like, and it certainly wasn’t something they’d ever _talked_ about. “Alright. Have it your way.”

“You’re going to cheat,” Castiel observed. He almost got away with not having to clear his throat to say it. “I’ve seen you hustle.”

Dean snorted, and the look of offense on his face was almost convincing. “Hustling ain’t the same thing as cheating, Cas. You don’t believe me? We’ll get Sam to deal.”

Castiel pretended to roll his eyes. “Have it your way, Dean,” he murmured, and saw those jade eyes darken with sly attention.

Dean Winchester wasn’t the only one who knew how to hustle.

Castiel didn’t expect to lose. Just because he didn’t gamble didn’t mean that he didn’t know _how_. In another lifetime, James “Jimmy” Novak had been an applied math major at MIT. The fact that Dean chose blackjack rather than poker suggested that Dean somehow knew this—even though there was no way he possibly could.

But Dean was also so damned _distracting_ when he was laughing like that. Who ever trash talked over _blackjack?_ Even so, they were neck and neck, the night pulling long.

Sam yawned and finished his beer with a long swig. “Last hand,” he warned, shuffling.

Castiel had held at nineteen—nine of spades, queen of spades, boring but certain. He looked down at Dean’s cards—two of clubs, three of diamonds, jack of hearts. Four of clubs. They were tied, a match, but some part of him knew that already.

“Hit me,” Dean said, anyway, looking into Castiel’s eyes with a grin pulling at his full lips, and Castiel forgot how to breathe.

Sam glanced between the two of them as he dealt the last card, and the moment it was down, pushed to his feet with an alacrity that belied his height. He was already backing towards the door when he muttered, “Yeah, I’m out of here, I don’t wanna know.”

The two of hearts blinked up at both of them.

From the look on Dean’s face, he hadn’t expected that any more than Castiel had.

(For what it was worth: Castiel had forgotten how _good_ it could feel to have someone moving slow and easy inside him, too.)

It was the first time they laughed in bed together, but it wasn’t the last.

*_*_*_*

Castiel had to slow his breathing as he looked down at the elegant, tanned infinity of Dean’s back, the sharp arch of his hip bones, the slope of his buttocks into his thighs now that his boxers were on the floor. On his forearms and knees on the bed, with his head bowed and body pliant, Dean knew how to be a damnable temptation.

Castiel had to grip his own hands into fists to keep from just _taking_. From grabbing and biting, from fisting his hand hard in Dean’s hair because just that alone would cause him to arch his back. From checking to see if Dean was prepped or ready—kneeling for an hour and with his hands as they were, Castiel doubted it, but he’d been wrong before. He stopped himself from spreading Dean’s cheeks between his hands and setting his tongue against him in soft flicks, broad stripes.

(Dean had yelped in shock the first time Castiel had done that for him—but it had also been the first time he’d heard Dean _moan_ _his_ _name_. Dean still wouldn’t ask for it, however. It was part of the reason Castiel did it.)

Dean had his weight resting on forearms and elbows, rather than on his abused hands, and for that alone, Castiel almost went to him. He almost gave him what they both wanted. It would be good—it would be so good. For today, it might be just enough.

But that wasn’t what Dean needed. Another time, yes. On another day, Castiel would have groaned as Dean marked his back with his nails, thighs spread wide around his hips; on another day, he’d have ridden Dean sore and counted himself pleased when Dean limped the next morning. He did, when Dean came out of his workshop flat-eyed and demonic. Castiel pushed, on those occasions, let a hint of pain, the burn of roughness, and the tight restriction of command draw Dean back into his skin.

But not on a day when Dean had used his hands to break a young man who could have so easily been a younger, more fragile version of himself: angry, brutal, with an understanding of violence that went deeper than knowledge.

Dean had done it simply because he could—because he wanted to, not because he had to. Cole Trenton would not be the same, after this, his world different in defeat. Dean had, most likely, created a monster and set it loose into the world—as Dean himself had been, once upon a time.

Dean would make no apologies for that, not to anyone. Not to himself.

Without that, forgiveness came so much harder.

Dean shuddered all over when Castiel put a hand to his shoulder and pressed downwards—gently, but not carefully. There was no resistance when Dean lowered himself the rest of the way down to his stomach, none when Castiel pulled himself up onto the bed and toppled Dean onto his side on the mattress, the memory foam hollowing under their weight. He ran a hand down Dean’s lean thigh and traced the groove of muscle and the tension still there.

Dean went stiff when Castiel slotted himself behind him, though, curling knees behind knees and quadriceps behind hamstrings rather than reaching out for lubricant and condoms.

“Cas—” he spoke, and it was out of turn. His voice was low and dark. “Are you fucking _cuddling_ me?”

*_*_*_*

“I’m Sam,” the taller one said. “This is my brother, Dean.”

“The Winchesters,” Castiel observed, looking back and forth, and back again, assessing. He’d seen pictures, of course—a glimpse of a newspaper photo, some surveillance; a mug shot, in Dean’s case, staring stony-eyed into the camera with his hands careless on the board holding his name.

In real life, they both loomed larger than he’d anticipated. It wasn’t just their height, though they were both taller than he was, and for Castiel, that was unusual. But their _presence_ ricocheted the corners of the room. Sam, younger, was the size of the Empire State Building, with keen, clever eyes and hair for vanity, not practicality. Dean, older, swaggered even standing still, legs kicked just slightly apart, chin up in a confidence he felt and didn’t simply manifest.

They’d likely be a liability, Castiel thought, looking helplessly at them. They had come so highly recommended—paper and pain, between the two of them—but it was the sort of recommendation that was a hidden caveat emptor of itself.

There was no-one better than Samuel Winchester at loopholes and laundering. Dean Winchester remained standing when gentility and words failed, dispensing agony the same as some dispensed pills. They had been Bobby Singer’s, once, the last and only of Bobby’s boys, and no-one ever doubted that those that Bobby trained walked away stripped to the finest essence.

Which meant that Sam was fire and brimstone, and Dean was knives and blood, but they were both equally likely to harm the hand that tried to control them.

No-one had been able to keep the Winchesters. Since the death of their mentor, they had made some organizations very rich and shattered others from the inside—more than one, and seemingly indiscriminately. Gordon Walker had been found dead, razor wire through his throat. Bela Talbot had simply vanished, leaving her people crumbling behind her. Agent Henriksen was nipping at Castiel’s heels already, asking questions of Castiel’s Angels that Castiel would really much prefer not be answered. He did not need this, need _them_ on his doorstep, as a distraction.

No-one had been able to keep the Winchesters. Castiel was not of the habit of self-deception. If they were here, if they had approached _him_ , it was for a purpose.

“Why the Angels?” Castiel asked. _Why mine, why here?_

Dean snorted, and crossed his arms. The roll of his eyes was as insouciant and as hard as Castiel would have expected from a man who was known for his ability to make people bleed out their life’s secrets. “We’re not here to work with the Angels, sweetheart. I don’t give a fuck about them. We’re here to work with _you_.”

It was a startling enough answer that Castiel blinked, and little made Castiel Novak, the head of the crime organization known only as the Angels, blink anymore.

“We’ll see,” Castiel allowed. He had heard enough flattery in his lifetime that he was rarely impressed by it. But Dean didn’t say it like it was a compliment.

Sam was the one who smiled, but Dean was the one who never looked away from Castiel’s face.

*_*_*_*

“ _Shh,_ ” Castiel murmured. He pressed a kiss into the slope of Dean’s shoulder and felt him shudder, as though Castiel had bitten him rather than just run his lips gently back and forth along his skin. This gentleness was punishment enough, Castiel knew.

Castiel hadn’t said that Dean _couldn’t_ speak—just because Dean so often didn’t at times like these, didn’t mean that Castiel would generally stop him from doing so. He didn’t like gags. He liked to hear Dean’s voice. If he ever wanted to silence him, he used his fingers.

“But—”

“Dean.” Castiel didn’t make his voice a whip or a strike when he reached down and cradled the smooth arc of Dean’s hipbone in the cup of his palm and fingers. He feathered his thumb lightly over the gentle crease where bone slid into softness, and spoke into Dean’s skin in a way that brushed air and lips over it. “What’s your color?”

“ _What._ ” Dean’s voice was flat. “Are you fucking joking.”

Castiel arched eyebrows he knew Dean couldn’t see and didn’t lift away the points of contact he already had. That wasn’t a joke he would have made under any circumstance, and it wasn’t one he was making now. There would have been consequences, if Dean had asked at any other time but being held like he was fragile in Castiel’s arms.

Of course, that was why Dean was saying it, and it had nothing to do with the threat of consequences.

“Color, Dean,” he repeated, and it was not a question.

“Green,” Dean finally muttered, with no hesitation to the word, but with very poor humor indeed. He ducked his chin in towards his chest the way he hadn’t while kneeling on the hard floor, trying to be smaller and _less_ in a way he hadn’t tried while abeyant.

He failed, because Dean Winchester simply couldn’t be less than he was: brutal, beautiful. Even when he tried to be.

Castiel didn’t laugh—there were times to be unkind; this wasn’t one of them—but he didn’t try to hide his smile, either, nuzzling it lower into the sensitive crease between Dean’s scalloped shoulder blades. He felt them flex against his cheek.

Dean was trying to be so _good,_ today: he ultimately allowed it, allowed himself to be held close—but only up to a point. His muscles were taut and corrugated, tense the way he hadn’t been with his mouth stretched around Castiel’s cock and his eyes half-shut with concentration. When Castiel pressed closer and draped an arm over Dean’s abdomen, he carefully rearranged Dean’s arms into a gentler position tucked against his chest, one higher, one lower.

Dean wouldn’t do it himself. He wouldn’t allow himself to be comfortable like this.

But when Castiel gently insinuated one knee between both of Dean’s, his other curved to Dean’s calf, Dean let out a shaky breath that seemed to tremor through him like an earthquake, coming from deeper within than his chest. His back moved, in and out, with the force of it. He leaned one shoulder backwards—a jerky motion, almost a twitch, and it leaned him against Castiel’s chest. Castiel moved his chin just enough to brush his stubble against the arc of Dean’s deltoid, and this time, Dean didn’t shiver—he sighed.

Castiel held him in, held him close with his face nestled over Dean’s shoulder, breathing slowly until Dean’s thick, nervous gulps of breath synchronized with his. Dean curved into it, and, finally, the rigidity of his spine softened. It took a long time before he was limp, truly relaxed, but it happened. Castiel punctuated his victory with another kiss, this one smaller, his nose lightly brushing an earlobe.

Dean didn’t break.

Castiel had known that he wouldn’t; whether _Dean_ had known that was a separate matter entirely.

“What do you want?” Castiel asked, softly, into the silence, barely a wisp against the back of one of Dean’s ears. Dean’s own breath hitched hard, and both his shoulders bunched forward again. Ah—too much. No words, not yet. “You don’t have to tell me, Dean. Show me.”

*_*_*_*

“Hey, boss. We’re gonna get drinks and hustle some pool.” Dean raised both of his eyebrows in inquiry, knuckles still raised to tap on the wood at the edge of Castiel’s open door. “Gotta air out Sammy before he starts drooling financial data. You wanna come with?”

Castiel looked up from the ledger in front of him; his eyes blurred briefly before he squeezed them shut twice, realizing they were dry. Something was very strange about what Dean had said. “Why are you ‘ _hustling pool?_ ’” he finally asked, squinting. “Is that a metaphor I don’t understand?”

Dean snorted and leaned against the edge. “Okay, you weirdo, what would that even be a metaphor _for_?”

Castiel blinked very slowly. Had Dean Winchester, whom he had employed on a probationary basis less than a month before, just called him a ‘weirdo’—to his face? Surely he’d misheard. He squinted. “Is this a very strange way of demanding more for your services, Winchester, because—”

Castiel definitely did not expect Dean to blink at him—and then _laugh_ , leaning an elbow against the door frame with his fingers wrapped around the edge, the line of his arm stretched up against the wood and his hip cocked.

He’d known that Dean Winchester was handsome, as that fact was patently obvious in the tilt of Dean’s eyes, the angular cheekbones, and the touch of bronze scruff he wore like others might have worn makeup.

But that was not the same thing as _feeling_ it, the tug of it rolling down Castiel’s spine.

It was not the same thing as hearing him laugh for the first time.

“I hustle pool ‘cause it’s _fun_ , not ‘cause I need the cash, Cas,” he chuckled, as if Castiel had said something truly amusing. “And if you even thought for a damned second that you ain’t paying me enough, then you’d better come with me, ‘cause you oughtta learn how to play before your ass grows into that chair.”

Castiel didn’t dignify that with a response. He glanced at his planner, at his watch. He’d been here hours longer than he’d expected, but that wasn’t exactly atypical. And he _should_ know more about the Winchesters than he did: one of them would hold millions in his big hands, and the other would cut and bleed and kill at his behest, personal in a way a hit was not.

It wasn’t until minutes later, until he’d stood and started righting himself with Dean impatiently tapping his foot, that he realized something. Castiel paused, halfway in and halfway out of his trench coat.

“’Cas?’” he asked, surprised, cocking his head to the side and finishing the motion of pulling himself upright and covered.

“What?” There was query, but no intimidation, in Dean’s expression. He stuck his thumbs into his belt loops and shrugged. “Your name’s kind of a mouthful.”

Most people in the Angels called him ‘Novak,’ and most outside his organization called him nothing at all, because they had no idea that he existed. Castiel was very sure that none of that had anything to do with his unusual first name.

“Hmm,” he noted.

He shouldn’t be amused—but he was.

*_*_*_*

Dean’s movements weren’t smooth, but they were smoother than they would have been in the past. He didn’t hesitate anymore when he reached for Castiel’s hand, when he dragged it down himself until Castiel and Dean both had their fingers resting on Dean’s partial erection. The growing fullness of his cock was blood-warm, still pleasantly soft and pliant. Not for long. Castiel licked his own lips, pleased. He hadn’t thought Dean would still want—but yes.

He cradled his hand gently over where Dean was half-hard, and ran his thumb in slow strokes along the neat cut of Dean’s groin. He could feel Dean shifting, pressing more firmly against his palm. “What will you let me have?”

They were molded together so close he heard the tremor of Dean swallowing rather than seeing it. “Cas—" he groaned, protesting.

“Will you let me have _this_ , tonight?” he ran his lips up the sweep of Dean’s hairline. “Perhaps _this_.” He turned his hand and tucked his fingers the rest of the way through Dean’s, allowed them to overlap. He soothed the curve of Dean’s thumb with his own.

“ _Goddamn you,_ ” Dean whispered, wounded and raw. Tenderness always undid him.

Castiel released Dean’s hand—carefully, conscious still of the plasticky feel of Dermabond on split skin, the bruising underneath. He feathered the backs of his fingers down the fine trail of hair leading down from Dean’s navel—it was so delicate, golden-brown before it fanned into darker, coarser curls, that it was almost invisible except to touch. He enjoyed nuzzling it, licking his way down it. Dean’s bellybutton was ticklish. He’d once swatted Castiel on the back of the head for spending too much time on it.

Dean’s punishments for others could be so playful—strange, but true. For himself, less so. These were the things Castiel knew about him.

“Then tell me ‘no.’” Castiel said it quietly, but it was a command. “I’ll still give you what you’re asking for. I’ll still make you come.” Dean was fully erect, now, when Castiel traced along his length with a fingertip familiar with the way Dean’s body _wanted_. “But if you do not want the rest—tell me ‘no.’”

He thought Dean might. Sometimes he did, when pressed this way—buckling under the strain of what he wanted compared to what he thought he didn’t deserve. Sometimes Dean wanted to be fucked—sometimes he wanted to be _hurt._ He never asked to be held.

So when Dean shifted and pressed _into_ him rather than away, when Dean put a hand on his forearm so their arms rested together rather than letting Castiel simply take him apart, Castiel felt his chest stutter with surprise.

_Oh._

Green, indeed.

So Castiel buried his face in Dean’s neck and whispered how good he was as he took his cock into his hand, Dean’s hips rocking into Castiel’s grip. Dean stiffened again when Castiel let him go, when he pulled the tack of their skin away, but it was only to retrieve a fingerful of lube and warm it in his palm. It was a small kindness, but it jolted up Dean’s body when Castiel wrapped him back up in wet fingers.

“Cas,” he gasped, and even that small breathless sound of his name was a gift—an acknowledgement that this was _him_ even though Dean couldn’t see him. “Mmm. _Yeah_.”

On another occasion, Castiel would have spread more of the gel between Dean’s thighs and slipped his own cock into the warm crease between them, joining him in the way Dean’s body pressed into his hand. They were the perfect height for that, they’d found. Not today, though. Dean’s pleasure was only his own, right now; Castiel didn’t want him having to think of anyone else’s.

Castiel lazed the tip of his nose against the back of Dean’s shoulder and watched the twist of his fingers sliding up Dean’s thick cock—slow, teasing downwards, faster and tighter upwards, with a gentle rotation that wrapped all the way over the glans. Dean was as beautiful here as he was everywhere else, cut and rosy with an upward curve that tickled Castiel’s palate when he took it into his mouth. He wasn’t as practiced at oral sex as Dean, but he enjoyed the way he couldn’t mistake the feel of Dean’s cock for anyone else’s, even with his eyes closed.

Castiel gave him just the slightest indication of teeth against the side of his neck when Dean started moving into the grip of his fingers—not chastisement, but encouragement. The sound of wet skin on wet skin without even the slap of hips and thighs was almost louder than Dean’s little gasping breaths. Castiel caught precome on his fingers, warmer than the lubricant, and thought of the taste of it. His mouth watered.

“Cas,” Dean grunted. “Gonna—”

Castiel could make him wait. He could draw this out, drag Dean trembling to the edge and suspend him over it. He could.

Instead, Castiel tightened his grip and turned his palm until his fingers swept over the slippery head of Dean’s cock, thumb pressing hard into where the vee of his glans merged into his shaft, and _tugged_.

He saw Dean dig his nails into his own palms as he spilled into the sheets, hot and slippery and salt onto Castiel’s fingers. They both saw it, saw that tiny cruelty to himself when Castiel had him in his arms, because he knew that was what Dean needed sometimes to keep kindness from being overwhelming.

He would let him have it, because they both knew Castiel would kiss those small crescents later in retaliation, Dean’s face flaming hot over lips on his hands. It was an absurd embarrassment for such a little thing, but that was just… Dean.

Dean settled, panting and hunched with the force of it. Castiel wiped his fingers on the sheets and withdrew his arm. He didn’t like it when Dean shoved out of the embrace, but it happened—Dean had already submitted to more than he had expected. It was easier when Castiel released him first.

Dean rolled over—facing Castiel but not moving towards him, leaving cold space between them as he turned. But he didn’t leave the bed.

“You. Now you,” Dean murmured, and pushed at Castiel’s shoulder with his palm. Castiel, blinking, let himself roll to his back.

He was hard—of course he was. Castiel didn’t pretend, in this room, that Dean naked in so many ways, Dean allowing himself to be cared for where he allowed it nowhere else, wasn’t the most splendid thing he’d ever seen in his life. But Castiel also knew that his own cheeks were already warm and flushed and his eyes were already heavy with satisfaction. He didn’t need more than this, than Dean’s surrender—even as momentary as it was.

“You don’t have to,” he noted. “You know I don’t need it.”

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean growled, displeased, looming over him, and that made Castiel smile.

*_*_*_*

“There are… rumors,” Hannah told him, her face as expressionless as ever. “About you, sir. And… Dean Winchester.”

“Are there?” Castiel asked, disinterested.

Hannah didn’t mention it again. No-one did.

*_*_*_*

They finished him off together, hands tangled, a few rough strokes between them with Castiel’s cock between their palms. Castiel’s hand was already wet with Dean’s come, working its way between both of their fingers and into his skin as they jostled for touches. It took no time at all. Dean’s gaze was intent rather than sleepy; he was sitting up for leverage as his hand worked on Castiel’s cock, his other gripping Castiel’s thigh with strong, wounded fingers.

Castiel closed his eyes into the harsh, rhythmic pulse of orgasm, electric and sweet and a thunderstorm. Dean’s calluses on him were as rough as his own as Castiel shivered—mouth open on gulps of air, as silent as he always was.

Dean was studying his face when Castiel let his eyelids drift back open, and Castiel watched Dean force himself to tug down the edges of the smile he was wearing on those soft, plush lips. Castiel pretended not to see.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean said, his voice hoarse and quiet and familiar.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel answered.

Dean must have known what he would do next. Castiel didn’t pretend he didn’t enjoy it, that he didn’t _want_ it, when he fisted a hand gently into the short, wiry hairs at the back of Dean’s head. It was enough of a grip that Dean rumbled sweet and low in his throat and his eyelids fluttered. Dean didn’t try to pull away when Castiel gently set their lips together.

Dean allowed it to be sweet for a few heartbeats, his lower lip soft rather than sneering or seductive. But before too long, he shivered like he’d been wounded. Castiel let Dean press deeper into him then, sprawl on top of him, let him use his tongue like a caress and an incitement rather than just a touch. He idled into it and licked into Dean’s mouth, satisfied by what he had had already.

It was never enough. But it would do for now. For the moment, it was enough.

“You gonna stay?” Dean murmured into his mouth.

Castiel blinked, and let his head fall back onto the pillow, leaving Dean suspended close over him. He was surprised Dean had asked. He certainly never had before; his habit was to turn away, leaving Castiel to get dressed and depart in silence. But Castiel was feeling lazy and content and pleasantly empty. “Do you want me to?” he asked, just to tease: he wasn’t expecting an affirmative.

He didn’t get one. “You’re the boss.” Dean pushed off and let himself tumble backwards onto the mattress, stretching lazily and scratching inelegantly at his stomach—all the cold tension had melted from his joints, the brittleness from his eyes. Castiel turned his head to watch him, simply for the pleasure of it. “You can do whatever you want.”

Castiel suppressed a snort. _Dean,_ of all people, saying that. “It’s _your_ room.”

Dean didn’t tell him to go. Dean, to his astonishment, reached an arm over and rearranged them—back to how Castiel had had them, settled like spoons, with Castiel at Dean’s back. Dean dragged one of Castiel’s arms over his waist, and then tucked his own arms into a neutral position. He made himself snug and cozy of his _own volition_ , their elbows touching, arms interlocked like puzzle pieces.

They were sticky with sweat; there was lubricant and dried semen on their bodies and hands and wet spots on the sheets. It was deucedly uncomfortable, and a little too warm, now, with two male bodies under a thin topsheet. They should probably turn the air-conditioning back on.

Castiel didn’t move. He nosed against where Dean’s hairline smoothed into his neck, and inhaled sweat and male and sex. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Mm.” Then, with a trace of laughter even he could hear in his own deep voice, “So how was work today?”

Dean chuckled, and the amusement in it was genuine—so few people understood Castiel’s jokes that he rarely ever bothered to make them. “Asshole. You are the _weirdest_ damned boss I’ve ever had,” he muttered, but his hands curled around Castiel’s forearms and he nestled closer this time, pressing, nesting their hips together.

Castiel smiled against the nape of Dean’s neck and pressed a kiss to the firm nub of bone where Dean’s neck slid gracefully into his spine. “I’ll kill you if you quit,” he promised, in a slow whisper.

There was something truly terrifying about Dean willing and sweet like this, his hands warm against Castiel’s forearms and his body pliant in an embrace. Castiel was only human; he didn’t admit his fears and desires aloud any more than Dean ever did.

Dean reached back with one hand and patted Castiel’s hip. There was enough sarcasm to the gesture that Castiel grunted and contemplated biting his neck.

“Yeah, Cas. I love you too,” he answered.

Castiel jolted in shock.

And he could tell by the slow, relaxed press of Dean’s shoulder blades against his chest that Dean was smiling.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Dean's torture of others is all offscreen, but no-one feels the least bit bad about it. He is also very much not kind to himself; there is no explicit self-harm, but his ability to differentiate between good pain and bad pain is... suspect.
> 
> Well, there my brain went with the oddness again. Also, I SWEAR I did not mean to include any mention of switching in this, but it just snuck in! (Sigh.)
> 
> This was Leaf's prompt: "Russian Mobster Castiel AU, Cas is the head of the family, Dean is his pet torture expert. (perhaps they knew each other before Dean was in the family, perhaps the winchesters already worked for them?) It is well known that Dean's blank expression during torture sessions is even more effective than the torture itself in getting information out of people (and scaring them into pissing themselves). Everyone thinks they're doing the do, but nobody knows for sure. (and of course they are).  
> \- Add on - Dean actually really needs to come down after every torture session and either has a Dom, or Cas is his Dom (becomes his Dom out of jealousy?) I mean have fun with it."
> 
> I had no intentions of picking this prompt up. Then someone, in a completely separate setting, challenged me to write cuddles.
> 
> Yep.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! And come join us in the [Profound Bond](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) Discord server, the source of all my creativity and these wonderful prompts!


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